


My Beautiful Reward

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Drabble Sequence, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan has left <i>Sports Night</i>; but <i>Sports Night</i> will never quite leave Dan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Beautiful Reward

**Author's Note:**

> Written August 2006 for LiveJournal SN100 challenge #125, _Coffee_; three double drabbles and an extended mix.

**West Coast Update**

He sleeps late. He can do that nowadays. Showers unhurriedly, breakfasts, dresses. Tries to write; can't focus. The empty apartment closes traplike around him, suffocating, stultifying. Craving noise, bustle, activity, he heads out to his neighbourhood café, pays a ludicrous amount for a cup of froth, settles by the window, watches the world awhile.

His days are measured out in little plastic stirrers. Occasionally inspiration strikes; he'll scribble frantically in his notebook until he's pinned it safely down. His laptop sits unopened. The email icon taunts him; he can never resist. And, message or no message, either way lies heartbreak.

Every day he drinks too much coffee, writes too few words, eats alone in restaurants, gets home at midnight. Stays up late to catch the West Coast broadcast. He no longer wonders why - why Danny had gone, why he's left behind. He feels no envy, no resentment. Danny is cool, poised, professional; he finally has the success he was so long denied. And Casey is glad.

Sometimes he notices a line around Danny's mouth, a shadow under his eyes, something the makeup department's missed. Then Casey smiles, and wonders, is it time to reach for the phone?

_Is it time?_

***

**Smoke on the Water**

_LA was too much for the man_, the radio tells him. Dan stretches out an arm, shuts it off, wonders who tuned it to the oldies' station. Not him. This is the land of the young, the vibrant, the pretty, and he fits right in. True, most of those beautiful people are coked to the gills - it's the only way they can deal with the pressure - but, hey. Whatever works.

His own drugs of choice are coffee and cigarettes: caffeine buzz to carry him through the day, smokescreen shielding him, keeping at bay the constant pangs of homesickness, of loneliness.

There's a small waterfront jazz club that's become his second home, his primary office. Smoking's still permitted in the VIP lounge. He lugs his laptop onto a balcony, stares out seaward, works through the night. Emails pop up from time to time: his mom; Dana. Sam Donovan forwards news stories he'll find amusing. Natalie IMs day and night, cheerfully oblivious to time differences.

There's nobody else he's expecting to call.

LA's not too much; if anything, it's too little, an unkept promise. But to admit that would be to admit defeat.

Dan shuts off the power and lights another cigarette.

***

**My Beautiful Reward** _(drabble version)_

This (Casey supposes) was inevitable. They're still in the same business; sooner or later, their paths had to cross.

At least they're not competing for the same award. That would be just plain awkward.

_Like this isn't?!_

He's polite; formal: "Hi, how're you doing, congratulations on the nomination ..."

Thank god they're at separate tables.

Casey concentrates on his meal, but old habits die hard. He knows to the minute when Dan slips away from the room; knows how his hands shake when he returns. And, just like that, Casey discovers he doesn't hate Danny any longer. Maybe he never did.

Even when Dan's name is read out (after his own was not); when Dan steps up on stage to accept his award, Casey's applause is warm and genuine.

Afterward, there's coffee on the balcony. Casey reaches out, not looking; a hand brushes his. Sparks fly. Looking up, his eyes meet Danny's, wide and shocked.

He hadn't imagined it.

"My room - " he begins, tongue-tied, almost stammering, but Danny understands. He smiles like liquid sunlight; the smile that Casey had never thought to see again.

"Casey," Dan says, patiently, "I _live_ here now."

It's midnight. The start of a brand-new day.

***

**My Beautiful Reward** _(expanded coverage)_

_This was bound to happen_, Casey thinks, _sooner or later_. They both still work in the same industry, after all, report the same stories, interview the same people. And, sooner or later, they'd almost certainly been going to end up in the same place, at the same time.

Now they have. And here they are.

At least they're not both competing for the same award. That would be just plain awkward.

_Oh, and this isn't?! _

Dana and Natalie hadn't seemed to think so. They'd spotted Dan as soon as he walked in the door, had raced across the floor to greet him. Natalie had almost literally jumped into his arms, no mean achievement in a floor-length formal gown, thrown her arms around his neck and clung on like a limpet. Dana had been a little more reserved, but only a little, and that possibly only because her skirt had less give in it. There'd been a lot of hugging and kissing, shrieks of envy at Dan's deep and, apparently, natural California suntan, a lot of teasing about his scraggly attempt at a beard and the fact that he'd come into the room still wearing his Prada sunglasses. A lot of laughter, only barely disguising the tears that nobody wanted to be the first to shed.

Through it all, Casey had stood awkwardly to one side, smiling politely, but frozen; he'd thought he might never be able to move again. When he did eventually manage to force out words, it was nothing but formalities - "Hi, good to see you, you're doing great work, congratulations on the nomination, you deserve it" - that sounded trite and false to his ears and, to judge by his tight smile and the scorn in his eyes, to Dan's ears too.

One thing to be thankful for: they're seated several tables apart from one another. Thank god for that, at least, even if Natalie does keep on looking over and waving. Casey tries to kick her under the table, but she only glares at him and kicks back. Harder, and in pointy little shoes.

Casey takes refuge in injured dignity and concentrates very hard on his avocado salad. He is paying no attention at all to anything going on in the room, other than keeping half an ear on the preparations on stage. He is most assuredly not watching Dan from the corner of his eye. It's only by chance that he happens to notice when Dan pushes back his chair and stands, discreetly slips away and doesn't return for almost half an hour.

It's none of his business. And god knows, Dan could be doing anything out there - this is Los Angeles, who knows what company he's been keeping, what kind of habits he's picked up? But still, in spite of himself, Casey finds his own appetite has vanished. He sits and toys with his food, aimlessly pushing rocket leaves around his plate, wondering whether he should make an excuse of his own, go see how Dan is doing.

As if Dan would thank him for it. Dan's all grown up now - which is ridiculous; he'd passed 30 while he'd still been at **Sports Night**. Casey had bought the cake himself. But still; somehow Casey had never stopped thinking of him as a kid, the hungry, half-grown college boy he'd taken under his wing all those years ago.

Not any more. That boy lived nowhere now but in Casey's memory. Except …

Dan's edging back to his table, as unobtrusively as he'd left. Casey can't see at this distance, but he knows that Dan's face will be as pale as the suntan will allow, his skin clammy, his hands trembling. He knows that Dan won't eat for the rest of the evening, will drink nothing but water. He knows how hard, how desperately hard, Dan will try to pretend to his new colleagues that there's nothing wrong. Or he might - just - admit to nerves. Or laugh it off, and blame it on bad tunafish.

Casey knows better. He knows that under the hard shell of confidence, behind the arrogance and the poise, hit-and-run Danny is still alive and well, eternally gawky and uncertain; beneath the salon style and the designer tailoring, the ghosts of threadbare Levis and scuffed Hi-Tops are still visible, too-long hair and eyes that, even then, had seen too much.

And with that realisation, as suddenly as that, Casey discovers that he doesn't hate Danny any longer. Realises, too, that he never really did. Wishes … well; never mind. It's too late to change things now. But if he had his time to do over … he would never have let Dan leave. Not on his own.

That's all.

When Dan's name is read out, and he steps up on stage to be handed his award, Casey's applause is as warm and as genuine as any in the room. He barely even registers that his own name wasn't called, and when Dana pats him consolingly on the shoulder and Natalie whispers, "Next year!", for a moment he's genuinely startled, wondering what they mean.

Ceremony over, the dining room empties and the bar crowd swells. Casey shoulders his way through the crush, trying to beat a path to Dan's side. He has to find him, before he disappears; before they lose one another this time too, and it's too late.

Maybe it already is. Casey searches the bars and reception areas, the balconies, the lobby. Dan is nowhere in sight. Eventually Casey stops to catch breath, collect his thoughts. He won't admit defeat, not just yet, but he needs a break.

Waiters are circulating with trays of coffee. He beckons one over, reaches absently for a cup, and his hand brushes warm skin. He jolts. He knows, he knows he didn't imagine it: the shock, like a charge of static, that had swept up his arm, the sparks that flew. He looks up and his eyes meet Danny's, wide and shocked. He'd felt it too.

Casey waves the waiter away. There will be time for coffee after.

_After …_

"My hotel room - " he gets out, words awkward and uncertain in his mouth, but Danny understands him (when did Danny ever _not? _), and he smiles, a smile like liquid sunlight, a smile that Casey had thought he would never see again.

"Casey," Dan says, patiently, "I have a _house _here now." And, together, shoulders barely touching, they leave the convention centre.

It's midnight. The start of a brand-new day; a fresh start, a fresh chance, a fresh hope.

It's a short drive to Dan's house (split-level, beachfront; does his anchor job really pay for all this?), but too long for Casey, too long for either of them. Doors close, locks turn, then hands are everywhere, feverishly clutching, caressing, fumbling; mouths lock, bodies press together, and words, words are forgotten: only _want you, need you, yes - yes ... _ Nobody says 'sorry'; no-one ever will. Men don't. It's okay. Nothing exists but the two of them, wrapped together in a cocoon of heat and urgency and desire, and, at the last, forgiveness; understanding.

It's not until the next morning that Casey looks around himself and sees that this house, this fabulous dream home, bears no imprint at all of Dan, of who he is, what forms him and shapes him: it's tasteful, anonymous, low-key. It might as well be a hotel room, bland, anodyne, generic.

It's not Danny. Danny is life and vibrancy and colour; eclectic, messy, chaotic, _unique_. This place? It's none of those things.

It's a waiting room. That's all.

Waiting. For what?

Casey leans back against the pillow, reaches down a hand to trace the tender hollows of Dan's collarbones, ruffle his sleep-mussed hair. Dan's eyes open, and he smiles up sleepily, squinting against the early morning sun.

"Wha's the time?" he mutters; his voice slurs, and Casey's heart squeezes with affection.

_No: call it what it is, Casey. For once in your damn life, tell the truth. _

"Almost six," he tells him.

"M'm." Dan shakes his head and sits up, resting back on his hands. He turns to Casey, and brushes a kiss across his cheek. "You're gonna miss your plane …"

And now Casey smiles, and his hand slides downward. There will be other planes. _This _\- this he may never have again.

He won't give it up. Not this time. Not ever.

"I know," is all he says.

* * *


End file.
